


Pandora

by ElementKitsune



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Non-Graphic Eye Trauma (for Sendak), Non-Graphic Violence, Trans Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElementKitsune/pseuds/ElementKitsune
Summary: Shiro is Hope from Pandora's box, and sometimes needs a little help remembering remembering what that means.(forever is a long time to live)





	Pandora

**Author's Note:**

> For the Shiro Big Bang. Thanks to aetherlogic and shadowdragon1553 on tumblr for being my artists, and cheesecake for being my awesome beta.

_ Hope _

  1. a feeling of expectation or desire for a certain thing to happen
    1. a person or thing that may help or save someone
    2. grounds for believing that something good may happen  
  

  2. _archaic_ _  
_ a feeling of trust



* * *

 

Centuries ago, Prometheus created humans at the request of the gods.

With his brother, Epimetheus, he had created other forms of life as well - creatures of all shapes and sizes, all given different qualities as ordered by Zeus.

But Epimetheus, as the Titan of Hindsight, hadn’t given much thought to the dwindling strengths he gave each creature until the brothers reached humanity and there was nothing left to give.

Yet Prometheus loved the humans, even though they were incomplete, and so he made them in the shape of the gods. And he gave them fire.

They were only pale imitations of the divine, but this pleased the residents of Mount Olympus, who thought that using these creatures as their playthings, as their worshippers, was a worthy pursuit. And one of the tasks they required from humanity was sacrifices.

As a result, Zeus demanded that they give a portion of their meals to the gods, in order to properly honour them. Despite this, Prometheus loved his creations, so he tricked Zeus, wrapping the best part of the meal in unappealing hides and the bones in juicy fat, and then told Zeus to choose which portion would be sacrificed for the pleasure of the gods. Of course, Zeus chose the bones.

However, as the uncontested ruler of the gods, he was furious.  _ How dare Prometheus defy him so? _ So, in order to punish Prometheus and the playthings he was so enamoured with, Zeus took away their fire, leaving humankind nothing to help their life.

This was something Prometheus would not stand for.

When the sky was dark, and the Olympians celebrating as they always did, he snuck into the heart of Olympus and stole a single ember from the hearth.

He then returned to the humans, lighting household after household until there were so many flames that not even the almighty Zeus could quench them all.

This was something  _ Zeus _ would not stand for.

Taking back the fire wasn’t enough? Then let him do his worst. To punish Prometheus, Zeus chained him to a rock where a sacred eagle would peck out his liver day after day for eternity.

And for the humans, and Epimetheus, Zeus decided on a greater scheme.

On mount Olympus, they would create a human of their own, beautiful and innocent and naïve, and present her to Epimetheus as a gift. But what they would also do was give her  _ curiosity _ .

This human was named Pandora, and she was the first woman to walk the earth.

Of course, Epimetheus didn’t see what Zeus’ plan was, and though Prometheus had warned him not to accept gifts from the gods before he had been chained, he couldn’t resist the lovely Pandora. And they wed.

On their wedding day, all the gods were invited, and they presented the happy couple with a jar, firmly closed and plain.

They gave it to Pandora, and they told her she must never open the jar, and then they left it at that.

Months passed, and Pandora complied, with Epimetheus watching her carefully as his brother had told him. But time let him grow complacent, while Pandora’s  _ need _ to know whatever she could grew and grew until one day, she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

While her husband slept, Pandora quietly made her way over to the jar.  _ She’d open it just a bit _ , she thought.  _ Barely open it at all, just enough to see what was inside. _

Carefully, Pandora raised the lid…

And then it burst open.

What Pandora didn’t know was that the gods had trapped all the ills of the world inside that jar, all unneeded in a perfect world. And by opening the jar by just that one crack, she was setting them all free to ravage humanity for eternity.

She tried to close the jar as soon as possible, but by the time she mustered enough strength to close the lid, it was practically all too late.

All that was left inside was Hope.

* * *

What it was like inside of the jar was strange.

It was more of an idea, really, a half-formed dream that what was inside  _ did _ exist, and not just a faint thought on the edge of your thoughts, barely out of reach but still just a bit too far.

It was a place of concepts, and they all bled into each other eventually, time to space to dark to hate to passion to hope.

In a way, there was everything crowding the jar, and nothing at all.

There was Hope, Hate, Passion, and a few others that would maybe be better off if they weren’t real.

It was easy to lose yourself in the jar, really, because it all turned to everything in the end, when the contents blurred together like eraser marks on a black page.

That was probably why it was so jarring when it opened, because it wasn’t a blur. Everything was  _ bright,  _ and  _ sharp _ , and  _ clear  _ in a way that shouldn’t have been.

With that in mind, it was only natural to escape once they could recollect themselves (it only took an instant, as it was. Maybe negative time, if time hadn’t started in that moment).

There was Hate leading the charge to the world outside, Strife and Death his loyal followers, Turmoil on the edge like an usurper, the rest of them like puppets on a string.

There was Passion, violet-eyed and snarling, swept up in the tide in a way that was unlike him.

There was Hope, chasing after the one not-concept she’s ever known, until the idea of freedom felt like it was calling to her like the jar had called to Pandora.

There was Pandora, who closed the jar just before Hope could escape, just before her fingers touch the edge.

There was Hope, stuck in what she now knew was the dark.

There was Hope, trapped in a place of concepts where time turned to space turned to dark to hope to time because all the others had left.

There was Hope, who’d learned how to see the world so it was  _ bright _ , and  _ sharp _ , and  _ clear _ , and slowly began to understand the concept of Alone.

(there was Pandora who could have freed her, yet never touched the box again)

* * *

It should have all blurred together in the end, like it used to.

Hope didn’t like knowing what time was, that it moved slowly (that slow was possible), that it yielded and disappeared for no one. What the dark was, that could have crept if there was anywhere left to creep. What emptiness was, when Hate and his followers had left, when her only friend among them had been swept away when they learned of the world beyond the concepts.

Hope couldn't count time, really, but there’s a tap tap tap that Pandora rapped on the box before it opened, and Hope counted the tap tap tap of her fingers against her knee.

(fingers were weird)

(knees were weird)

(how did Pandora ever know what to do with these things?)

(how could Hope ever learn?)

* * *

Tap tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

Could time be measured in tap tap taps?

* * *

Shouldn’t Pandora have freed her by now?

She’s let everyone else leave.

(tap tap tap tap taps blur together like eraser marks on black paper)

(this is her new concept)

* * *

Tap tap tap.

(it should have been easy to fall back into empty concepts, to be hope instead of Hope)

(Pandora should have freed her by now)

(there were a lot of should have beens)

* * *

(Hope waits for a while)

* * *

Coran is no stranger to the stories of the Greeks. Their gods, their heroes, their monsters, and all the artifacts that never quite proved the legends to be true, but proved them to be  _ important _ .

There is one, however, that he thinks would be quite the find.

Alfor must too, considering he had even brought along Allura on this quest of theirs.

“You think it’s the right spot this time?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed together and strands of long white hair poking at his eyes.

Coran puffs his chest out, lets the excitement building in him reach its crescendo and stay. “Of course! I’m surer of this site than a klanmuirl of its nose when it smells the juniberry field downwind!”

Alfor chuckles, soft and still bright. “The last time you said that, you managed to lose half of all your belongings to an Unilu.”

Coran allows himself one moment of sheepishness before bouncing back. “Ah, not true, old friend. The last time was actually getting back everything from the Unilu, and it was not half my belongings, but in fact the specimens of Yelmor fur, the few lumps of scaultrite from the last Weblum demonstration, and the crystal shavings from a Balmera.”

Alfor strokes his chin in thought, in a way that calls to mind all the times he’s brought up Coran’s exploits that have gone a little… out of hand, to say the least. “Ah, yes. By the time we had found the correct Unilu, he’d auctioned off all the rest.”

Now, Coran is very intent in defending his honour, and also very willing to bring up some of Alfor’s own mishaps in return (and how many there are). He opens his mouth to comment about the time Alfor had nearly engaged himself to three different nobles at the same time, but then Allura bounds forward in a swirl of blue skirts and white hair and red juniberries, and his mouth shuts closed without a sound.

A rare sight, but he is willing to hide some embarrassments from Allura for just a little longer. After all, Alfor did have an equal amount of ammunition.

“Father!” she squeals, and makes an impressively strong jump onto Alfor’s back as he leans down for her. When Allura is settled, Alfor stands up straight and spins around, delighted screams coming from the child.

Coran’s ears twitch the slightest bit. He can’t help but smile at them despite the pain in his ears.

When Alfor finally slips for a moment, the slightly dazed smile tells him that it’s worth it.

“Coran, what are you doing?” Allura asks.

Coran steps a bit closer and swipes Allura off of Alfor’s back, holding her close. He cups his hand to her ear like he’s telling a secret. “We’re looking for Pandora’s pithos,” he stage-whispers, and Allura’s eyes shine.

“It’s here?” she exclaims, and Coran’s smile grows.

He nods solemnly, hiking Allura a bit higher up. “Yes, princess. In fact, we could find it any second!”

She lifts her hands up to her mouth, a dramatic gasp that would make Coran proud -  _ is _ making Coran proud - escaping her.

She leans in close, hugging him and then giving a stage-whisper of her own. “Can I help?”

Coran tweaks his mustache, trying to build the suspense. It’s always amusing to see Allura’s reactions without an immediate answer. She could also stand to build some patience from time to time. After approximately ten ticks of her staring holes into his head, Coran decides that it’s enough and faces her again.

“You’ll have to ask your father about that,” he says gravely, and Allura twists around in his arms to give better baby mammal eyes than a pack of Yelmors and a clan of klanmuirls put together.

“Can I?” she breathes. Her eyes widen, her hands are clasped over her heart, and Coran thinks that she’s been practicing that look a bit.

Alfor lasts five ticks before succumbing to laughter and Allura’s pleading look. “Of course,” he says, and plants a kiss right at the top of her head. Allura giggles, and squirms out of Coran’s arms to go running towards the excavation site.

Without a helmet.

Or any of the protective gear that they’ve insisted on  _ time and time again… _

The two men exchange a look for less than a tick before Alfor (who is a bit slower on his feet) goes back for Allura’s safety gear and Coran darts forward to grab the wayward child.

The process is old, familiar, and precisely eleven dobashes and three ticks pass before Allura is trying to escape his hold and pouting at the helmet and other assorted gear being strapped to her person.

“I don’t see why this is necessary,” she huffs. “You and Coran don’t have anything like this.”

“Not true, Princess,” Coran chides, and takes her hand away from a strap she had been fidgeting with. “We need them as well. Why, the one time your father tried to excavate without the appropriate gear—”

A hand is slapped over his mouth, and Alfor is giving Coran a look as he glances a bit nervously between Allura and Coran.

“We don’t need to go into details,” he says, and his voice doesn’t crack. Impressive. The last time Coran had started that story, he had been twenty shades of red and his voice was higher pitched than Allura’s. “Needless to say, it’s important to protect yourself.”

Allura huffs again, but she stops fidgeting, which as good a sign of surrender as any. Then she promptly darts off into the tents, and when she comes back, she’s holding a very familiar helmet.

She raises her arms in the wordless demand for being picked up, and Alfor acquiesces, until they’re at about eye level with each other and Allura is shoving the helmet none too gently onto Alfor’s head.

Coran catches the leg spasm only because he knows Alfor too well, but it doesn’t stop him from snickering at his friend’s expense.

“Now we can go together,” she states, and Alfor only smiles back at her.

“I was never thinking anything else,” he says back, and Allura beams.

Coran lets a soft smile of his own appear, before thoughts of Pandora’s box flood his mind and he’s twitching with the need to look, to search, to find out if it’s real.

“Last one there is a rotten Kershav!” he announces, and whisks Allura out of Alfor’s arms. He trips Alfor in the process, but that is also a familiar routine.

Allura giggles in delight, and Alfor is muttering very unflattering things, and Coran is looking and sliding right into the site.

He shares a look with Allura, and they nod in sync before Allura leaps down and waits for her father to catch up. Coran keeps an eye on her and starts digging, looking for any sign of something other than dirt.

He told them both that he was sure, but this is the last site. After this, he has no ideas where Pandora’s pithos could be, and Alfor and Allura could only spend so much time chasing childhood dreams with him. He’d much prefer to find it with them by his side.

A blur of white hair passes in the corner of his vision, and Coran turns towards her just fast enough to see her trip.

Alfor practically materializes by her side, helping her up and watching her carefully, but Allura doesn’t make a sound. Just gives a dirty look to the ground and dusts herself off.

“What did you trip on?’ Coran asks as he walks up to the ground, and Allura’s nose scrunches.

She pokes the bump in the ground with the tip of her shoe, and scowls. “This,” she mutters, and fidgets with the strap of her helmet for a few ticks before leaving it alone again.

“I see,” he says as he tweaks his mustache, and his gaze lowers to the ground. There’s nothing supremely unusual about it, seeing as all the ground is remarkably bumpy. But his eyes look where Allura tripped, and Coran can just feel it—

The pithos is buried somewhere right here.

He must be quiet for a bit longer than he thought, because when he stops thinking and starts to go for his shovel, Alfor is already putting one into his hand while Allura starts to clamber up his leg.

Coran blinks, startled for a moment, before small fingers are curled around his and he’s gazing into blue, blue eyes.

“It’s here, isn’t it?” Allura asks, and Coran dislodges her from his leg by raising her up up up, until he puts her down and crouches to her level with a smile as wide as he can make it.

“I think it is,” he says, and Allura’s expression is a mirror reflection of his. “You’ve discovered it, Princess.”

Alfor’s hands rest on both their shoulders then, and he’s grinning too. “If that’s the case, Allura should rightfully try the shovel first, shouldn’t she?”

Allura’s face is remarkably conflicted, torn between excitement and exasperation and a little bit of dread. She eyes the shovel warily, eyes Alfor warily, before daintily grabbing it and plunging it into the ground.

There’s a bit of heaving involved, as the shovel is a bit oversized for Allura, but she eventually gets the trick.

“Do you need help?” Coran asks, fully aware that she would refuse.

Allura turns toward him, chin lifted high in the air. “Absolutely not,” she says as her fingers turn from the shovel, and Coran swoops in and grabs it for himself.

She squawks a bit, and gives him the evil eye, but all is fair in digging. Plus, Coran’s very good at convincing Allura to stop being mad at him.

“I need the exercise,” he says while giving her a wounded look, and Allura’s lips twitch before she turns like it’ll hide the sounds of her laughter.

“I’m sure you do,” Alfor agrees, and the wounded look is turned his way. Sadly, experience with Coran has left Alfor rather immune to most things he can do.

With a huff of his own (and now he sees where Allura could have picked up that habit), Coran starts digging with vigour, and pretends that he doesn’t realize that it’s starting to pile at Alfor’s feet.

It takes Alfor long enough that it’s a bit above his ankles to notice though, so this one is Coran’s win. Coran turns towards him and Allura, and his eyes widen enough to see handfuls of dirt readied to throw his way before his shovel refuses to budge.

He opens his mouth to call a truce, but Alfor is the slightest bit quicker than Coran for once. (and they call Coran the immature one. Ha!)

Allura laughs hard enough that she bends over and her hair starts sweeping the ground, and Coran spits dirt out of his mouth as efficiently as he can. The taste stays though, and he thinks he can feel more in his mouth.

He coughs twice just to try and clean it out one more time, before starting to speak again.

“I think I may have found it,” he says, the slightest bit petulant, and Alfor’s hands drop. He looks slightly sheepish as he drops to the ground beside Allura and the shovel.

Allura, who turns to Coran and asks, “Do you really think we found it?”

_ As sure as a klanmuirl of its nose _ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he breathes deeply. “You’ll never know unless you try.”

She nods, short and sharp and face set with determination, and all three of them reach for the middle. Alfor moves the shovel, Allura pushes around the dirt, and Coran chips at the harder areas until one last swipe of Allura’s hand leaves sparkling silver in its wake.

Coran looks at them both one last time, and there is Allura’s excited gasp with Alfor’s encouraging smile.

“Let’s take it out all the way,” murmurs Alfor, and they do.

When it’s finally removed from the ground and dust is wiped off on what they can find (Allura eventually uses the lower portion of her skirt, which will be slightly annoying to clean later on, but the gesture is much appreciated), what they see is a pithos.

Pandora’s pithos.

Coran moves it around to get a better look in the light, and the second he does, it shifts in his hands, until instead of a pithos, there is a small black box with silver designs in his hand, no bigger than his palm.

“It’s  _ magic _ ,” Allura whispers, and they’re all silent for a moment.

“You’ve done it, Coran,” says Alfor, and the silence is broken.

Coran looks for a moment. “Open it,” both of them say, and he reaches for the lid. It’s like he’s in a trance, he thinks, going to open the box despite knowing the legend, despite knowing what happened last time.

The lid moves up, just a crack, and there is a blinding lavender and silver light before the box falls onto the ground and Coran blinks the spots out of his vision.

There, standing right in front of him, is a child. A bit taller than Allura, with short black hair and dark eyes squinting at the light, like they haven’t been outside for an extremely long time.

“Are you Pandora?” asks the child, and Coran automatically tweaks his mustache.

“My name is Coran,” he says, bright and exuberant, before he sees the child wince and tones it down a notch or ten. “That’s Alfor, and this is Allura. Who are you?”

The child rubs at their eyes, before they see the box with the half open lid and look back at Coran.

“My name is Elpis,” they say. “I’m Hope.”

* * *

What Coran learns over the course of several months is that Elpis doesn’t particularly know  _ what _ to do with people.

It’s not a matter of disliking them, he thinks, because whenever Allura extends invitations to play, it’s less flat rejection than being completely bewildered at the idea, as well as sometimes trailing behind Coran like she thinks he won’t notice.

(He always does.)

With that in mind, he tries to incorporate her more. It was first Alfor and Coran, then Alfor, Coran, and Allura, and he sees no problem in having them be Alfor, Coran, Allura, and Elpis.

The only obstacle would be that Elpis doesn’t seem to know if she wants that or not, and Coran isn’t going to do anything to push her if he can help it.

(she may be older than humanity, but there is a reason she emerged as a child from the box)

* * *

“Are you not hungry?” Coran asks, and Elpis starts at the question.

He’s stared at for some time, dark eyes unwavering, until they stare down at the plate again.

“...What do I do with this?” she asks, and Coran tweaks his mustache.

“Open your mouth,” he says, and it takes about five ticks before she does so.

With skills long acquired from helping raise Allura, Coran makes an impressive saga of the ancient fight between the vegetables and bread people, with all the fallen soldiers going right into Elpis’ mouth.

“Am I the underworld now?” she whispers after the meal, eyes poking through her bangs (Coran thinks to himself that he should try to warm her up to the idea of a haircut).

He curls his mustache around his finger again, and gives her a smile that hides the mischief.

“Only temporarily,” he answers. “The vegetable and bread soldiers wouldn’t know what to do without you!”

Elpis grins back at him, and Coran thinks he’s doing alright for now.

* * *

The box stays open on the counter, like that since the day they found Elpis. Somehow, Coran is content to leave it be, despite how long he’s been looking.

* * *

When Alfor comes over with Allura for the first time after the dig, Coran spins Allura around three times before she’s swaying dizzily on the floor, and Alfor has already inserted himself into the house and made himself comfortable.

Old friends. They have no manners at all.

He spots Elpis in the corner, peeking curiously at these two almost strangers, and a pang resounds through his heart, cold slowly flowing through like when he’d spent long nights researching and researching after losing a lead.

“Elpis!” he exclaims, and she doesn’t flinch at his exuberance. (Coran may or may not be a mite too proud at that) “Have I officially introduced you to the Princess and this bum?” He points at Alfor for the last words, and is given a glare that promises vengeance when Alfor doesn’t have to act like a good role model around his daughter.

She slowly enters the room and almost glues herself to his side. They haven’t gotten around to making her comfortable with casual touching yet, which might be the only reason he isn’t being used as a human shield.

He glances down, and there are narrowed eyes staring straight at Allura like she’s a threat.

Of course, Allura is unaffected by this. “You’re Elpis, yes?” she asks, and curtseys when she’s given a hesitant nod. “Would you like to play Warriors?” she offers as she bounces on her heels, and Elpis only has enough time to look confused before she’s swept away by Hurricane Allura.

“All we have to do is take down Father and Coran,” she explains, and Coran secretly offers himself as a sacrifice when blue and black eyes stare right at him.

They tackle him to the ground, and a friendship is formed.

(Alfor laughs from his place of safety, right until Coran helps them take him down)

(that vengeance won’t be completely fulfilled anytime soon)

* * *

“Coran?” Elpis asks one day, when he’s experimenting with new recipes and she’s looking through the myths that fill most his books.

(it’s your history, he’d told her when she asked what they were. Perhaps not entirely accurate, but you can read through them if you like)

(teaching her had been an experience with Alfor and Allura’s contributions)

“What is it?” he answers, and mutters quiznak under his breath when he accidentally burns himself.

“Will you leave like the others?”

The words are quiet, like he wasn’t supposed to hear them even though it was a question for him.

He doesn’t know if she means the ills that had been in the box before Pandora had opened it, or Pandora herself, but it doesn’t change any part of his reaction when he crosses to her side of the table and gently grasps her by the shoulders.

He can’t promise not leaving, because there was simple leaving like getting food away from the house, and complicated leaving like dying, because Coran is very, very mortal while Elpis is very, very not. He can promise something similar though.

“Even if I leave,” he says slowly, carefully, like he’s holding a juniberry with his words, “I will always come back.”

Elpis doesn’t look up for a bit, but small arms curl around Coran’s torso with surprising strength, and she doesn’t let go for a while.

It’s fine.

He doesn’t let go either.

* * *

When Coran feels a tug on his sleeve, he expects Allura and/or Elpis with a serious(ish) question waiting for him to answer.

He does not expect Elpis ogling her own hand.

“Coran, when did my skin get darker?” she asks, voice full of wonder.

Coran laughs. Apparently tanning is a wonder.

* * *

It’s a peaceful moment with the children (mortal  _ and _ immortal) playing outside and Alfor and Coran reminiscing about the wilder tales in their youths when Allura screams.

“ _ Father! Coran! Help!” _

Coran’s name isn’t even halfway out of her mouth when they’re bolting down the hall, to the counter where Allura is sobbing next to it and Pandora’s box is closed.

A chill goes down Coran’s spine, trickles into his muscles and veins until he feels like he’s made a little of snow and ice.

Alfor rests his arm across Allura’s shoulders, pulls her in close and wipes away her tears until she’s calm enough to speak.

“The box closed,” she hiccups, tear trails shining down her face. “We were playing Warriors with each other and we crashed and the box fell and it closed and it won’t open Coran it won’t open—”

Alfor’s grip on her tightens as she bursts into a new wave of tears, and Coran gently takes the box from Allura’s fingers.

“I’ll open the box again,” he soothes. “Elpis will be alright, do you understand, Princess?”

Allura hiccups three more times and needs a dobash to compose herself, but she nods in the end.

Coran reaches for the lid, the black and silver box looking clean and untouched like the day they found it, and he pops it open.

There’s another burst of lavender and silver light and when Coran blinks the spots from his eyes, there’s Elpis looking through him like he’s not even there.

“It’s dark,” she mutters. “It’s dark, and I don’t wanna be alone I don’t wanna be alone Pandora why are you leaving me in there it’s dark it’s cold Pandora  _ please _ —”

“Elpis!” Alfor barks, loud enough to jolt Allura by his side but Elpis barely flinches, casts her eyes to Alfor for one unseeing tick before they look straight through Coran again.

_ “Elpis,” _ Allura pleads through her remaining hiccups, and Elpis doesn’t react.

“Elpis,” Coran says softly, and it’s like a spell is broken.

A full body shiver runs through the immortal, until there’s another and another that makes Elpis blink and finally, she sees them again.

“Alfor? Princess? Coran?” she asks, and she sounds so, so lost.

“Can I touch you?” Coran asks gently, and there’s a muffled whimper before she launches herself into his chest. Somehow, this sets off a new round of tears from Allura who whispers that she’s sorry, and soon enough all four of them are in one giant hug pile as Alfor and Coran exchange helpless looks above the children’s heads.

They don’t move for a while, though legs and arms get cramped and shirts get slightly (incredibly) damp.

It’s a bit comforting, soothing really, when the crying stops.

(when they’re done, the box goes onto a higher shelf where it’s less likely to fall down, and they all have a long chat about where to get Coran if it closes again)

(it’s not exactly a perfect solution, but it works)

* * *

It’s another quiet day with Coran and Elpis going through their own books when Elpis asks him another question.

“Why can all the gods go after anyone when that doesn’t happen in this century?”

Coran winces, thinks of all the stories that had gotten him branded mad in the courts, where people whispered about Coran who’d never married and Alfor with the one daughter instead of a son and all the accusations that were never quite voiced.

“The worlds of mortals and immortals are a bit different,” he says in lieu of explaining all this to a centuries-old child, and sees Elpis frown.

“Can’t we just take the parts we like?” The book lays open on her lap, a picture of Ganymede in the stars taking up a page. Zeus’ cupbearer, he remembers, though he hadn’t read the myth in quite some time.

“One day, I hope so,” he says, and then blinks. Maybe he’d had too much exposure to the nunvil recently.

Slowly, Coran rubs his right eye until it should be fine, and does the same for the left. Squeezes them open and shut, and then tweaks his mustache a mite too hard.

“Are you glowing?” he asks incredulously, and they share a good, long look.

And then, in sync, they race for a letter and quill.

* * *

“Hope,” Allura says clearly, and Elpis doesn’t glow.

Both of them look incredibly disappointed at this.

Alfor’s brows crease, like a Yelmor separated from its pack. He raises his hand to his chin and frowns. “What were you two talking about when this happened?”

Coran tweaks his mustache again (there certainly was an increase in mustache tweaking recently) as his expressions starts to mirror Alfor’s.

“We were discussing hopes for the future—” he starts to say, and is cut off by a gasp.

“You’re so  _ shiny _ ,” says Allura, and Elpis beams. It’s literally a blinding smile, and she covers her mouth as soon as Allura squints.

“I  _ know _ ,” Elpis replies, and the giddiness is almost palpable.

They share a look that is reminiscent of when Coran and Alfor were their age--er, Allura’s age--and Coran tweaks his mustache one more time for good measure.

He wonders if perhaps he should switch his hair tonic from the nunvil.

* * *

It’s the middle of the night and Coran wakes with a groan when he sees light peeking through the space between the hinges. It disappears in a moment, but by then it’s too late for him to sleep.

Not so mindful of his surroundings, he mutters quiznaks in time with each stubbed toe. (there are more than ten quiznaks)

With a yawn, Coran peers into the sitting room where a glowing Elpis is practically devouring the novels.

“Which myth do you have there?” he asks, and Elpis flails, the book flying up into the air before bouncing off her head and back into her hands.

“Ouch,” she says belatedly, then, “Caenis and Poseidon.”

Coran steps over to the chair and looks over her shoulder. “The woman who asked to be a man?” he checks, and Elpis nods.

“The ending isn’t very nice,” she says, and Coran can’t help but agree with that. Suffocated by centaurs didn’t seem like a particularly pleasant way to go.

“There aren’t many myths that end well,” he reminds her gently, but her frown only deepens.

“Like Pandora’s box,” she murmurs. Coran squeezes her shoulder, and it’s a testament to how she’s changed from her first day out of the box that she leans in instead of looking confused.

The glow starts to fade away, and there’s only Coran, Elpis, and the dark. (and Coran’s stubbed toes)

“I think the myth ended well enough,” he says after a moment of silence. “After all, you’re here with us now. The bits in the middle were a bit messy though.”

He can’t really see anything right now, since his eyes are still adjusting, but Elpis places her hand over his own and squeezes back.

“You’re right,” she says quietly, and the sun peeks out from the horizon.

* * *

Alfor snickers at him, and Coran supposes that it  _ is _ deserved this time.

After all, it’s not every day that he has to walk around with children clinging to his legs.

“Am I allowed to cook now?” he asks, and the response is distressingly quick and distressingly negative.

(Alfor doesn’t bother hiding his laughter anymore)

* * *

“I think I’m like Caeneus,” Elpis says one day, but Coran’s got a case of sleep knees and sleepy head so it doesn’t completely make sense.

“You’re not allowed to be suffocated by centaurs,” he says automatically, and Elpis blinks at him.

“I, no. Nope, not doing that.”

Coran narrows his eyes. “Have you become invulnerable?”

Elpis’ mouth opens and shuts for a second. Her hands flail.

Coran’s eyes widen then, and a sudden rage overcome him at the most prominent part of Caeneus’ myth. “ _ If any god has touched you I’ll rip out their yulschtrix, _ ” he promises, and Elpis twitches and then laughs.

Coran blinks, and tweaks his mustache out of confusion.

“How did you get every part of that myth except the turning a woman into a man?” she asks, and oh. Oh. Quiznak? That was a mite embarrassing.

“Sleep fog?” he asks, and gives a thumbs up.

Elpis grins, so it’s not all bad.

* * *

“Do we still call you Elpis?” Allura asks with her hands on her hips and Elpis shrugs. His nose twitches.

“What else do we call me?” he asks, and well, fair point.

“We could always look for another name,” Alfor suggests, and that is also a fair point.

Elpis blinks at that, then a slow smile spreads across his face. “That would be nice.”

Coran clears his throat. “Obviously, this is our number one priority now.”

They all agree, and it’s somehow not a surprise when Allura sneaks away to try and be the first one to find a name.

* * *

“This century is worse than the Greeks about people like me, so why doesn’t it affect you?” Elpis asks one day, and Coran only shrugs in reply.

“Acceptance is more of an art than a science,” he says. “It’s good that we’re all arts people here.”

He doesn’t really have a better answer for now, and that’s. It’s the best he can do.

* * *

“Jason,” says Alfor.

“Died in misery after breaking his oath to Medea and his ship fell apart on his head,” says Coran.

“Hercules,” says Allura.

“Burnt alive after wearing centaur poison,” says Elpis.

“Achilles.”

“ _ Troy. _ ”

Allura’s head pops up from the book she was nose deep in. “Perhaps we shouldn’t use Greek mythology for possible names,” she suggests, and that. Well.

The four of them exchange glances, and they agree to stay far, far away from those books for this particular quest.

* * *

“Sebastian?” Allura suggests one day, and Elpis’ nose scrunches up a bit.

“It doesn’t feel right?” he asks, and Allura nods. “I like the S,” he continues, and that receives another nod.

At least they had a starting point.

* * *

“Samson,” asks Coran.

“He died by being crushed,” answers Alfor.

Elpis looked at the books. “Why are there so many deaths here?”

Allura shrugs. “Most of it is  _ your _ era.”

He gives her a look. “I am older than that nonsense.”

“Not too old for yours,” Alfor mutters under his breath, and the answering grumble is amusing enough.

Coran hides his smile, and a book drops on his foot.

“ _ Quiznak!” _

* * *

There’s a quiet amount of horror as they close the book they were on.

“Should we just. No western names,” Elpis announces finally.

There are no arguments.

(When Coran suggests they take a break, it’s hushed and enthusiastically supported.)

* * *

With one last elaborate swoop of the scissors, Coran finishes Elpis’ haircut.

“It’s so short,” he comments. Then, “It’s nice.”

Coran ruffles his hair. “Back to the names?”

Elpis visibly wilts, but wordlessly rises from the chair.

* * *

Coran tweaks at his mustache less gently than usual, and the accompanying jolt serves to wake him up.

The box catches his eye from the corner of his vision, and he can’t help but admire the silver detailing on the box. And come to think of it, didn’t the light from the box also have some silver?

He flips through a dictionary quickly, and he finally find an option.

“Shirogane!” he exclaims, and the others swivel their heads in his direction.

“We could also call you Shiro,” Alfor suggests, and Elpis nods.

Allura huffs a bit in the corner, and sidles up to Elpis’ side. He looks down at the book she’s holding, and looks back up at all of them.

“Takashi Shirogane?” he asks, and Coran beams.

“It fits wonderfully!”

“Can we call you Shiro?” Allura yawns, and Elpis nods back.

They then demonstrate the amazing ability to sleep anywhere.

Coran and Alfor exchange looks of their own, and they decide not to clean up today.

They can do that tomorrow.

* * *

(“we need to clean more often,” Coran mutters as dust flies up in the air)

(Alfor raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you?”)

(the children, traitors as they are, laugh out of dusting range)

(he gets them anyway when he takes over the kitchen)

(intentionally suffering through a meal is a small price to pay)

* * *

It’s almost strange to see them grow. Alfor and Coran stay the same except for perhaps a few more wrinkles, but Allura and Shiro grow and change as the years go on.

It’s a little amazing in a way, to see them both grow like juniberries, stubborn and vibrant and near impossible to make them yield for long. (they may have also been a bit like weeds in that matter, but that is fair)

They are adults(ish) and Coran and Alfor are proud of them.

Of course, whenever things seem to be going the most right is when they turn into a greek tragedy.

* * *

“Coran, are you alright?” asks Shiro, and Coran waves him off.

“I’m as healthy as a Balmera, don’t you worry!”

The exclamation doesn’t seem to entirely do its job, judging by the pursed lips and narrow eyes still remaining, but it deflects enough suspicion that Shiro goes off to do other chores.

When he’s out of sight, Coran quietly sighs and looks at his palm.

Coughing up blood is probably a violation of being healthy.

* * *

When Shiro wakes up, something feels… off.

It’s there lurking in the corner of his eyes, just out of sight, but he can’t help but be  _ aware _ .

It’s almost like the box, a niggling presence in the back of his mind, but he’d gotten used to the box on the counter at this rate. There’s just something there, and he can’t figure out  _ what. _

Even though it feels familiar.

* * *

He’s helping Allura carry things (though he knows she is perfectly capable of doing so on her own, even through the bustle and corset and petticoat) when there’s a flash of purple on the edge of his vision and without realizing it, Shiro goes tense and ramrod straight, eyes darting around until Allura snaps her fingers in front of him with a frown.

“Shiro?” she asks, her expressions asking more but willing to be patient.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” he says quietly, and Allura’s frown deepens. “I’ll tell you later,” he offers as an appeasement, and while her expression doesn’t change, they start walking again.

She probably only leaves it since they’re in public.

(Why does purple fill him with so much  _ fear? _ )

* * *

Coran is smiling and as Coran as ever when Shiro gets back, but he can’t help but feel uneasy.

Everything  _ seems _ normal, with him bickering with Alfor and doting on Allura and being  _ Coran _ to Shiro (even though he had been centuries too old for the vegetable war trick to get him to eat his food  _ centuries ago _ ), but it just… it isn’t the same. It isn’t.

He just can’t figure out  _ why. _

* * *

(when Coran collapses three days later, he finds out)

(why did it take so  _ long? _ )

* * *

He’s replacing the towel on Coran’s forehead when he sees purple again and this is something that has his mind screaming  _ danger danger keep the purple away from his family. _

Shiro has no weapons, and hasn’t really learned how to fight, but he whirls around to where he last saw the purple and sees nothing.

Then there’s a laugh right next to him, and Shiro is met with the sight of Sickness with his usual smile, thin and cruel and something that tries to be knowing.

His eyes are bright yellow like the rest of them, a blend of sclera and iris and pupil, but Shiro can  _ feel _ him looking towards Coran and he bristles.

“It’s been a while, Elpis,” says Sickness, and Shiro feels a snarl on his lips but pushes it down.

“Not long enough,” he says instead. Then, “My name is Shiro now.”

Sickness tilts his head. “Have you finally caught up to the rest of us then? Passion still hasn’t.”

Be calm be calm be calm. Sickness moves the slightest bit closer to Coran, and Shiro sweeps in between them, the immortal guard of the sleeping man.

“What did you come here for, Sickness?” he asks, and it’s surprisingly level considering how everything feels like burning.

(It’s the smile that gets him, he thinks. Sickness and his damn smug smile.)

“It’s Haxus.” He raises a clawed finger, and uncurls it to point at Coran. “That man is already under my domain. It’s only a matter of time before he’s Sendak’s to claim.”

Something of Shiro’s confusion must show, because Haxus’ smugness only grows.

“We all have new names now. Sendak’s old one is Death.”

Shiro feels his blood drain from his face, but at least he remains standing.

“His domain is violent death,” he says, and his heart is beating like a hunted mouse’s, bump bump bump bump bump, but he remains standing. “This won’t be in it.”

(that damn smile)

“We’ll see about that,” purrs Haxus, and he takes his leave.

Shiro remains standing long after he’s gone.

(his heart is pounding in his chest, his blood is roaring in his ears)

(this won’t be the last time)

* * *

When Alfor pulls him aside, Shiro doesn’t say anything at first, just blinks tired eyes and watches for purple to show.

“What’s happening?” Alfor asks, voice rough with tiredness. He’s been caring for Coran too, Shiro remembers, and the memory of Sendak from the box makes him shiver.

Still, Shiro shrugs it off, shrugs Alfor off too.

“I’m handling it.” His voice is steady, and if there’s a bit of gold in his eyes…

Well, they won’t call too much attention to it.

* * *

When Allura brushes past him with all the presence she commands and ushers him out of Coran’s room, Shiro almost lets her considering it feels like he hasn’t slept in a week. (has he? Time is a new concept)

Then he’s almost on the threshold of the room and there’s purple overcoming his vision and he doesn’t quite know what happens next except Allura’s sitting on the ground and Shiro is standing next to Coran’s bed.

He’s asleep. He’s breathing. They haven’t come yet.

He turns to apologize to Allura, but he sees the scowl on her face and the words die in his throat. When she marches towards him this time, she doesn’t try to push him out, just sits down next to him with eyes on Coran’s sickly face.

“We love him too,” she says almost offhandedly. It feels like a reminder. It shouldn’t.

Shiro doesn’t say anything, can’t think of anything that feels right, but he closes his eyes.

(when he wakes up, his head is on Allura’s shoulder, Alfor’s in the room with food, and Coran’s still breathing)

(it makes the next time easier to handle)

* * *

The days pass by, and Coran starts to grow stronger and stronger until he’s almost vibrant enough to try and get out of bed. (they stop him, of course)

Shiro doesn’t let his guard down.

It pays off.

* * *

When Sendak comes, the moon doesn’t look like anything special. It’s the second half moon, last quarter, and not bright enough to shine behind all the clouds.

It doesn’t really do anything, but it makes things a bit easier to hide when it starts.

There are the heavy footsteps that Shiro doesn’t recall from the box, step step step like war drums and the cavalry. It’s what wakes him from his sleep though, lets him be ready to face violent death with nothing but his bare hands and sheer determination.

(he won’t let Coran die. Not from this)

“You’re not Thanatos,” Shiro remarks when he takes in the sight of armour, golden eyes like all of Hate’s followers.

Sendak sneers at him, canines bared. “He’s a weak god. After all, he was bested by a mortal.”

Shiro shrugs, lets an easy smile fall onto his face. “I’m sure that there are many mortals who escaped you.”

Of course, that’s when Sendak lunges.

Shiro thinks to dodge for a split second, but there’s Coran behind him and he ducks under Sendak’s arm instead, grabs him and pushes him towards the front door.

Followed up by a kick to his back, Sendak is out the door and Coran is successfully out of the battlefield, and he doesn’t have to worry as much. (he still worries. He wonders if this is something other immortals do)

He lets Sendak turn back to face him, golden eyes narrowed to slits and purple claws tensing. Those are things to watch, thinks Shiro, and he lets himself fall into a strange calm.

They fall into a kind of rhythm after that, Shiro taking bruises and cuts at a faster rate than Sendak, but the haphazard fighting style of the new and desperate keeps him strong.

His mind is clear though his blood is pumping, and it’s when he catches the pale glint of Sendak’s teeth that he knows something is wrong.

He turns back to Coran and freezes; Haxus is hovering over him, smug smirk in place and Coran turning sicker by the moment.

The sudden halt costs him. There are furry purple hands around his throat in a moment, and Shiro feels his back hit the ground and the air leave his lungs.

Sendak snorts above him, teeth in a menacing grin and malevolent amusement in his eyes.

“You’ve failed,” he says bluntly, and doesn’t flinch when Shiro claws at his arms.

Black spots fade in and out of his vision, and it’s when he’s on the cusp of unconsciousness that Sendak lets him go, the slow, confident walk towards Coran’s deathbed a taunt. It’s a reminder, a taunt, the fact that he’s who Pandora left in the box because he’s lesser.

He can’t breathe.

_ You’ve failed. You’ve failed. _

Sendak is maybe three gigantic steps from the front door.

_ You’ve failed. _

It’s a good thing that the night is dark.

_ You’ve  _ **_failed_ ** _. _

It hides Allura charging out of nowhere and hitting Sendak right in a fuzzy purple ear.

There’s a howl that resounds through the area, cut off by Allura landing another blow to Sendak’s abdomen. Violent Death bends over gasping for air, and is defeated by an irate women slamming a plank right over his fuzzy purple head.

Shiro takes a moment to stop and stare, his jaw wide open because… that just happened?

Then he remembers what moment he’s in and scrambles up, because Sendak could get up any moment and strike back.

_ “Get Sickness!”  _ he yells as he jumps onto Sendak’s back, and Allura does it with a war cry.

(In the small part of his brain currently able to process the background, he sees Haxus flinch and back away and feels the tiniest bit smug on Allura’s behalf)

Then Sendak backs into a wall.

_ Hard. _

_ OW. _

Shiro only tightens his grip around Sendak’s neck, until there are claws on his arms and golden blood is spilling onto the ground and Sendak’s armour.

He won’t let go.

“Shiro,  _ move, _ ” he hears Allura call and he’s dropping before he can think of it. Just in time too, because that’s the moment where Haxus crashes into Sendak at high speeds.

It’s probably a bad idea to stare incredulously at Allura in that moment, but he does it anyway.

“And  _ stay out _ ,” she snarls. (he thinks he hears Haxus whimper)

Haxus and Sendak scramble to their feet, and there’s something that feels foreboding.

_ Have to leave, have to report back to Lord Zarkon. _

Shiro jolts back, because  _ what was that _ , and somehow barely misses getting hit by what looks like a broken off piece of wood.

It lands right in Sendak’s eye, and another howl sounds in the area, deep and guttural and more like a mindless beast than a boastful immortal.

Purple hand held over his eye, Sendak snarls one more time. “Haxus, retreat,” he spits, and there’s a flash of black and purple light.

“Who was bested by the mortal now!” Shiro calls before the light fades completely, and the hints of a growl in the wind are answer enough.

(his heart is pounding, his blood is roaring in his ears)

He whirls to face Allura, a frown firmly stuck on her face and hands on her hips.

“If that was all that was troubling you,” she says, with the slightest bit of haughtiness, “you could have said so earlier.”

Words seem to fail him in that moment (and maybe he’s a little bit afraid as well as impressed by what Allura can do). He nods instead, jaw open a bit and maybe a bit dumb-looking, and Allura almost preens.

Well, forget the almost.

(there are myths with happy endings)

* * *

“They’ll be back later,” says Shiro when they’re cleaning up, the plank Allura used to literally browbeat Haxus into submission carefully set to the side.

The corners of Allura’s mouth turn down again, and he feels the slightest bit of guilt at how often he’s seen that sight lately.

Her eyes narrow again, and the steely glint in them brings the sight of Haxus slamming into Sendak back to his mind. (Shiro tries not to laugh right now. He mostly succeeds)

“We’ll just beat them back again,” Allura decides with a nod. “We’ve done it once.”

They let the words settle into a funny silence, something that should be heavy with the topic but instead is just… comfortable.

Kind of like their family.

He eyes the box on the counter, miraculously untouched despite all the chaos, and it feels like. He doesn’t know. Maybe memories, back before concepts like this.

(Shiro has a family now)

(this is his new concept)

* * *

They don’t come back in Coran’s or Alfor’s lifetimes.

They  _ do _ come back in Allura’s.

* * *

When Coran’s hair has gone white and Alfor’s sight is almost gone, Shiro feels immortality bearing down on him like a curse. (he thinks it is)

(why should he watch everyone he loves die?)

It comes for Alfor first, a simple affair in his sleep.

Shiro can’t see Thanatos through the cloak (too many mortals have tried to chain Death) but he hears him sweep by and can’t help but call out a “Wait.”

The swooshing of the cloak falls silent, and Shiro looks down at Alfor. “Will it hurt him?” he asks, and hears a low chuckle echo through the room, almost calming in a way.

“That is the realm of the Keres,” Thanatos answers, and the cloak sounds like it’s dragging on the floor.

“Thank you for answering,” Shiro says, because he might as well try to be polite to someone who’s taking Alfor’s soul, and the answer comes with a soft sigh.

The body’s still warm.

It won’t be in the morning.

(Coran covers his eyes when Shiro tells him, and Allura sets her jaw in the way that promises she won’t cry)

(he wonders what will happen when the rest of them go)

* * *

Coran is next, and Shiro isn’t the one who watches over that.

He’s awake and exuberant and Coran the day before, and the day after Shiro is back in the box and knows that Allura will be looking for him and that Coran is gone and it doesn’t feel like anything except cold.

Just cold.

(he knows what time is now, but he starts to count tap tap taps)

(it might be easier if he forgets how bright and sharp and clear and  _ beautiful _ the world outside can be)

(he still doesn’t want to forget)

* * *

Allura hesitates when reaching for Pandora’s box, and she isn’t quite sure why.

It’s closed for the first time in what must have been decades, but she can’t help but hesitate because surely Shiro can’t be back in there?

(there’s a memory. Playing and the box falls down and suddenly Shiro isn’t there anymore and no matter how hard she tries to get a grip and pull it open  _ it won’t yield _ and all she can do is cry)

(then Shiro comes out of the box and only Coran can help him, only Father can help  _ her _ , and neither of them are here anymore)

(Allura can’t help but feel lost)

Even if Shiro isn’t in the box, it can’t hurt to check. She grabs a chair and climbs up, maybe scowls at the poofy dresses that make up court lady wardrobe and are  _ too  _ confining, and reaches for the box.

Her heart leaps into her throat, lungs taking in air but it feels like she’s not breathing.

The box is closed.

The box is closed and Coran was the only one who had been able to open it.

The box is closed and  _ Coran isn’t here anymore. _

(scrabbling and scrabbling and the box won’t open she’s so so sorry so sorry sorry)

She still has to try. Even if it doesn’t work, she still has to try.

Allura sits down on the chair, thinks of juniberries and the time she took on Sickness and Violent Death with only a plank and Shiro by her side, and pops open the lid.

_ It opens. _

There’s lavender and silver light, and Shiro appears on the ground tapping his knee, then he blinks like he can’t really see her until they lock eyes and there’s a smile blooming and Allura is tackling him in a hug because—

_ It opened. _

Allura doesn’t cry, and Shiro doesn’t cry, but if there are some stray wet patches on their clothes and their faces are unusually shiny, there’s no one but them who’ll notice.

* * *

“How am I out of the box?” Shiro asks later that day, eyes furrowed in that way that makes Allura want to laugh.

She waves her hands vaguely. “I opened it.”

“But…” his voice trails off, and she knows what he’s thinking of. (after all, she’s thinking of it too)

Allura does another vague gesture, and pouts at the fact that words aren’t coming today. (it’s understandable. It’s been a long, long day)

“I couldn’t then. I can now,” she says when she finally decides on words, and links her arm with Shiro’s. He leans into her, and there’s that sort of comfortable familiarity that happens when you grow up together that lets Allura slump against his side.

It’s a comfortable silence, and Allura’s almost asleep when she hears the soft mumble of “I’m glad you could.”

“Mm, hap’ too,” she mumbles right before exhaustion takes her.

(maybe right before that, she feels a weight on her head)

(it’s comforting)

* * *

The box should go back on the counter, she thinks, but Allura’s not sure. It was there out of reach ever since the first time they’d closed it, but it doesn’t…

(she doesn’t want Shiro to be out of reach. There’s only so much they have left, the “adopted son” of the eccentric and the only child, the daughter of his questionable friend)

(gossip lasts longer than it’s useful for)

Still, she isn’t the one connected to it by the gods. Years later, and it’s still strange to think they’re real. She’d believed, of course, because Coran and Father had been so passionate, but it’s one thing to go chasing for myths and another to fight off two of them with a piece of wood.

It’d be better to ask Shiro. Even though she thinks she knows the answer.

(she does, in the end)

The box goes back up onto the shelf just out of reach, and Allura can’t help but keep it in the corner of her eye when it enters her vision. For different reasons than Shiro, yes, but she watches it all the same.

Life continues, simple and easy for quite some time, where things like Sendak and Haxus nearly fade into memories.

That’s when they come back.

* * *

Shiro hadn’t changed much from growing, even if he looks like an adult now instead of the child that had originally been in the box. There was a certain point he reached where he just stopped, and it shows how he remains eternally young, youthful, when Allura is old and her silver hair has darkened to grey and there are lines abundant on her face.

She’s not the young woman who fought off Sickness and Violent Death with a piece of wood.

He’s still Hope who left the box.

It’s easy for immortals to win when the mortals have been weakened by time.

* * *

When they come again, it’s midday with the sun blazing in the sky, and Shiro is out.

The footsteps are silent like a predator’s, and Allura maybe only hears it because she’s used to the quiet traipsing of Shiro around the house. She doesn’t lift her head from its position until she can see Sendak’s shadow looming nearer, and when she does, a small smirk blooms onto her face.

“The eye didn’t heal?” asks Allura, and Sendak doesn’t reply except with baring his teeth.

“You’ll die today, Altea,” he says in lieu of an answer, and Allura doesn’t blink.

(She is old, and feeble, but she is still defiant.)

(The only regret in that moment is that Shiro isn’t prepared.)

* * *

Shiro goes back into the box like an instant, like a flash of lightning in the storm.

It takes a while for realization to freeze his heart, turn his ichor to ice in his veins.

Allura is dead, he thinks, and doesn’t feel.

Tap tap tap.

Time is not his concept.

Tap tap tap.

(maybe feeling will thaw him. maybe he’ll be warm)

(hope in the box waits with a tap tap tap)

(he’s waiting for a while)

* * *

Shiro waits, and wait, and waits.

Waits through tap tap taps and the dark and concepts of time.

(there is family, orange and white and pink like fingerprints dotting his soul, something that burns through his skin right into in the ichor in his veins.)

(shiro wants to forget, maybe, feels like it might be easier)

(it should be)

(it should be)

(it isn’t)

* * *

time leaves

hope stays

shiro stays

tap tap tap tap taps blur together like eraser marks on a page

* * *

(maybe it isn’t that long that the tap tap taps sound)

(it feels like it)

(time is a new concept for an immortal)

* * *

It opens.


End file.
